Hitchhiker: Hot damn. I never rode in a convertible before.

Raoul Duke: Is that right? Well… I guess you’re about ready, then, aren’t you?

Dr. Gonzo: We’re your friends. We’re not like the others, man, really.

Raoul Duke: No more of that talk or I’ll put the fucking leeches on you, understand?

Dr. Gonzo: Heh heh heh…

Raoul Duke: [as the Hitchhiker stares at them nervously] Get in.

Raoul Duke: How long could we maintain? I wondered. How long until one of us starts raving and jabbering at this boy? What will he think then? This same lonely desert was the last known home of the Manson family; will he make that grim connection when my attorney starts screaming about bats and huge manta rays coming down on the car? If so, well, we’ll just have to cut his head off and bury him somewhere, ’cause it goes without saying that we can’t turn him loose. He’d report us at once to some kind of outback Nazi law enforcement agency and they’ll run us down like dogs. Jesus, did I say that? Or just think it? Was I talking? Did they hear me?

Raoul Duke: I want you to understand that this man at the wheel is my attorney. He’s not just some dingbat I found on the strip, man. He’s a foreigner. I think he’s probably Samoan. But that doesn’t matter, though, does it? Are you prejudiced?

Hitchhiker: Hell no.

Raoul Duke: I didn’t think so. Because in spite of his race, this man is very valuable to me. Oh, shit. I forgot about the beer. You want one?

Hitchhiker: No.

Raoul Duke: How ’bout some ether?

Hitchhiker: What?

Raoul Duke: Never mind.